Winning Miss Wakefield: The Wallflower Wedding Series (3 page)

Turning her, Eve gave her a playful push. “But of course, I would never forgive you if you hid in the study all evening. So, hurry back. We’ll save a place in the back row for you.”

Even though the specter of suspicion loomed overhead, Merribeth had to admit that the idea of doing exactly what Eve suggested she
not
do was so appealing that she went without argument. After all, the likelihood of her aunt’s friend introducing her to unscrupulous gentlemen when she returned was too high to ignore.

As she walked at a fine clip down the hall, the thought was enough to expose the raw edges of her irritation
and
her Wakefield brow again.
Heaven forbid
.

“If I feel like hiding in the study for the rest of the evening, I will. Or if I feel like handing over Eve’s reticule to a footman and then hiring a hack to drive me home, I’ll do that too,” she said to herself with an admirable degree of conviction.

The latter held the most promise.

Finding the study, she pulled open the door, hoping to retrieve the reticule and then leaving Lady Amherst’s immediately. However, the light inside the room was dim, with only the wall sconces behind her to aid her search.

In the center of the room, two leather wingback chairs and a tufted sofa faced an unlit hearth. A large desk sat against the far wall. No reticule in sight. Yet she soon realized that with the curtains drawn in the room, her trespass into the study could easily be discovered by any of the guests outside.

Not wanting any more attention this evening, Merribeth quietly closed the doors.

Now, the only illumination came from the parted curtains, where the glow of torchlight from the outdoor stage filtered in like strands of pale gold silk. The muffled voices of the actors and a spattering of laughter from the audience drifted in as well, pulling her across the room and toward the tall, narrow window.

From this vantage point, she could see everything of the play and the audience alike. Now
they
were the spectacles on display, and she had the best seat in the house.

At last, she felt her anxiety and irritation abate. The thought of leaving without anyone the wiser, returning to the small townhouse at the end of Danbury Lane and steeling into the kitchen for a hot cup of coffee put a smile on her lips. A genuine smile too, not the one she affected for society.

Here, in her solitude, she needn’t worry about concealing the slight gap between her front teeth or the high arch of her brow.

From the corner of her eye, she spotted the glimmer of light reflecting off a series of cut crystal decanters atop a richly glossed cabinet. Reminded of how Eve had confessed to sneaking in here for a glass of port, she wondered if there might be brandy in addition to port. She’d always wanted to try brandy. However, Aunt Sophie didn’t allow spirits, only wine.

Feeling daring, as if Eve’s challenge for her to be brave had woven itself into the fiber of her soul, she quickly made up her mind. After all, this could be her only chance.

The only problem was, she wasn’t sure which decanter was filled with brandy.

Lifting up the stoppers one by one, she sniffed. Each of the five had a different aroma, from fruity and floral to woodsy and oaken.

Not knowing which was which, she decided it was best to pour a splash from each decanter into the waiting tumbler. Then, as she’d seen gentlemen do, she picked up the glass and swirled the contents. All the better to mix it, she supposed.

She gave it a tentative whiff and wrinkled her nose.
Strange
. The combined fragrances weren’t at all pleasant. Nevertheless, she was determined to try this concoction. Closing her eyes and holding her breath, she touched the rim of the glass to her lips—

A throat cleared. A decidedly low rumble of a sound. A very
male
sound.

Merribeth’s eyes flew open on a gasp.

Turning, she suddenly realized she wasn’t alone.

C
HAPTER
T
WO

I
n the dim light, Merribeth could barely make out the silhouette sprawled atop the tufted sofa. What she’d discerned at first glance as a haphazard heap of cloaks was now stirring to life. The rumpled mass took form, rising languidly, like the first curls of smoke from a chimney.

Her pulse was anything but languid. It raced hard and fast beneath the flesh of her throat. A whispered voice in her head urged her to flee.

However, her feet weren’t cooperating. It was as if she’d actually turned into the wallpaper she’d accused herself of being moments ago. Now, she felt trapped, forever pasted to this spot. She stared, unblinking, as the indistinct outline of a head atop a pair of expansive shoulders crested in front of the camelback sofa.

A man, then. She’d guessed as much from sound of his clearing his throat. Yet somehow, the confirmation escalated her riotous pulse.

The stranger remained in the shadows, his features obscured by the darkness. The spill of light from the window merely glanced across the toes of his boots. From their glossy points, she could see he wasn’t a servant but likely a guest. She should have felt relieved. However, knowing the type of guests on Lady Amherst’s list, this did not quiet her pulse a bit.

After all, his presence in a darkened room did not speak of someone looking for gossip but one escaping it.
Why?

The more her eyes adjusted to the darkness, the more she took note of his shape, or more so his position. He remained carelessly sprawled, legs apart and bent at the knee, as if he were perfectly at home. Even in her limited experience with the opposite sex, she knew a gentleman would sit erect and cross his legs in the presence of an unmarried woman. He most certainly wouldn’t sit so . . . so brazenly.

Perhaps he was no gentleman at all, then.

Instantly, she recalled Eve’s adapted plan, which only made the coincidence of the “forgotten reticule” highly suspect. Most likely, she’d arranged the whole thing beforehand. Obviously, this man was part of a scheme. Meaning this man was, in fact, a rake.

Her pulse leaped higher in her throat, tripping at first and then sprinting like a rabbit from a fox. Only this fox—if Eve had her way of things—was set loose for the purpose of
kissing
the rabbit, not
killing
it. At the moment, Merribeth didn’t know which unnerved her more: the prospect of the former or the latter.

With effort, she swallowed. “Why are you here, sir?”

“Apparently to watch a miserable attempt at suicide.” With one arm draped over the back of the sofa, he lifted the other—which happened to be holding an empty tumbler—in a mock salute. “In vain, I tried to remain silent. For your sake. However, for mine, please do not drink that ghastly concoction. I should hate to be forced to explain your death to Lady Amherst.”

She didn’t know him, not from the sound of his voice at any rate. Certainly she would have remembered such a resonant baritone. Each enunciated word possessed a deep rumble, almost an echo, bringing to mind the sound of horses galloping in the distance. It was not a voice one could forget.

“Lady Amherst would relish the uproar of scandal from a death at one of her gatherings,” she whispered, rambling out of a need to collect her bearings.

“Precisely why I should hate to be the one to tell her.” He offered a dramatic sigh, as if pretending to be bored by their exchange. Yet she suspected he was grinning. “You’d leave me without a choice but to join the audience below, slip in unnoticed, and then feign surprise when one of the servants discovered your corpse.”

She refused to laugh, even though the bizarre and inappropriate impulse was there all the same, tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I should hardly think this will kill me,” she said with false bravado, lifting the glass once more. Only now did she notice that her fingers were damp. Most likely, she’d spilled some of her experimental blend when he’d startled her.

Strangely enough, it occurred to her that she was no longer startled. Her hands weren’t shaking. Her pulse had slowed to a more sedate canter. The only thing she could attribute it to was the sound of his voice—deep, resonant . . . hypnotic.

“Perhaps not, but it wounds my sense of taste greatly.”

He stood, moving unhurriedly as before, as if he did not want to frighten her. Or perhaps it was simply his way, not to rush. He didn’t have the loose-limbed cockiness of a man her age, springing to attention with the desire to impress everyone with his agility and form. No, the stranger moved with a languorous arrogance of a man more settled into his skin. A sort of graceful conceit that suggested entitlement.

Now was certainly the time to flee, if ever there was one. She’d allowed his voice to lure her into a sense of calm. Still, she was aware of everything, watchful—nervous, certainly, but not as much as she should be—and more alert than alarmed.

For all she knew, he could be like one of those carnivorous flowers she’d read about in one of Sophie’s scientific journals—lying in wait, luring in his prey, and then slowly seizing and devouring.

He chuckled, as if he’d read her thoughts. “Might I approach?”

“For what purpose, sir?” She swallowed, watching as his shadowy arm reach inside his tailcoat.

In the next instant, he withdrew a pristine white handkerchief. He held it out far enough for the light to fall upon it, making it shine like a beacon in the room. “An uncharacteristically chivalrous one, I assure you.”

Merribeth stared, transfixed, as he took a step forward, allowing the light to fall on him too. She nearly gasped when she saw his face. She did know him. Or at least knew
of
him.

The Marquess of Knightswold, though everyone referred to him as Bane. He’d made his fortune in gambling. It was rumored that he’d bankrupted more than his share of gentlemen at the tables. Also, he was a rake of the first order, or so she’d heard. Positively unapologetic and irredeemable. He’d even tried to seduce one of her dearest friends, Emma Danvers, lately Emma Goswick, Viscountess Rathburn.

His hair was darker than hers, coal black and pushed away from his forehead in a careless, slightly mussed manner, as if a woman had recently run her fingers through it. Not that she would know what that looked like—though knowing he was a rake, she couldn’t seem to keep her thoughts away from the scandalous possibilities.

Beneath a thick brow, he returned her appraisal. She’d recognized him by his eyes. No one could forget those. Like gray satin, they possessed an iridescent quality that made them appear as if they were lit from within and not reflecting the light around them. Looking at them now, she was nearly afraid of their intensity. If she were the superstitious sort, she might believe he could see directly through her clothes.

Right on cue, as if he’d heard her thoughts and found her struggle amusing, he chuckled. His full lips spread in a grin that was too gradual to be considered mocking. Yet she felt mocked all the same.

Uncharacteristically chivalrous
,
indeed
. Her Wakefield brow arched, and she quickly brushed her hair out of the way so that he could see her disapproval and be warned. “Chivalry is not a purpose.”

“True.” He offered a nod. “I consider it more of a pursuit,” he said, emphasizing the last word as he took another step toward her, forcing her to take a step back.

He was trying to be clever.

She narrowed her eyes, despising that she was the source of his amusement or anyone else’s. Her irritation returned. “Of all the rumors circulating about you, a pursuit of chivalry is not among them.”

He flashed his teeth in something of a grin. However, the even rows of perfectly white teeth were emphasized by four sharp canine points where the upper and lower met, making him look entirely too feral. This particular
grin
spoke more of danger than amusement. “Good. I was worried we’d have to go through the tedium of introductions.”

Merribeth had manners enough to blush at her own rudeness. Glancing down, she readied an apology, only to find her attention fixed on his unexpected movement. In a slow sweep, he lifted his hand as he reached for her—no, not
her
exactly, but her
glass
.

She could have easily thwarted his advance or denied him access by moving out of his reach. He wasn’t blocking her retreat. He was merely standing in front of her. Yet for reasons unknown to her, she didn’t stop him.

Without asking permission, he slid his hand over the cut crystal, grazing the tips of her fingers. Even then, he pressed on.

He continued, sliding his fingers between hers, nudging them apart. It was like holding hands, only this felt
and looked
far more intimate. His hand was large, his skin much darker than her own. Blunt-tipped fingers spread hers wide enough that she felt the stretch and pull of the sensitive webbing beneath the lace edge of her gloves.

A staggered breath escaped her. Tingles began to dance over her skin to a strangely foreign tune, driven mainly by the percussive beat of her pulse. It was fast again, though not entirely from fear.

Of course, fear was part of it. Fear of the unknown. She didn’t know him. Didn’t know what he intended. All she knew was that Eve said kissing a rake would give her confidence and mend a broken heart. The idea seemed less absurd by the moment.

His fingertips nuzzled into her sensitive flesh and lingered. The tingles dancing along her skin followed her pulse like the Pied Piper, from her wrists, to her throat, to the warmth between her breasts. Further down, the piper abandoned his flute in favor of a drum. When she lifted her gaze to meet Lord Knightswold’s, the light in his eyes shimmered, blazing with silver heat.

Suddenly, she imagined all those tingles taking the shape of pagans lit by moonlight. Wild and naked, they danced around this drum in a circle. A bead of perspiration trickled between her breasts.

“You’re wet,” he said in a voice that seemed to possess secret, intimate knowledge of things no gently bred woman dared think about.

She pulled back abruptly, leaving the tumbler in his hand. Only then did she remember the handkerchief he held in his other hand. Only then did it occur to her that he was commenting on the wetness of her fingers.
But of course he was
.